


Let It Roll

by Mackaley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackaley/pseuds/Mackaley
Summary: It’s a simple fact that he lives with, can live with, most of the time. But some mornings, this morning, it is the totality of his existence: Aziraphale will never touch him, not with purpose, and it is absolutely too much to bear.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 150





	Let It Roll

**Author's Note:**

> I'm glad this sad bullshit ripped itself from me last night because I am just BUOYED by that 30th anniversary video. Sorry for how somber this is given how EXCITED EVERYONE IS TODAY.
> 
> Title is from “Sisyphus” by Andrew Bird.

Crowley tries not to engage in melancholy. But there are mornings when he wakes up and it slinks in with the dawn, slowly pouring in through the windows and brushes his feet, climbs up his legs, his torso, until the early grey light and the weight of reality blankets him, consumes him, and he’s useless to do anything but _think_.

It’s a simple fact that he lives with, can live with, most of the time. But some mornings, this morning, it is the totality of his existence: Aziraphale will never touch him, not with purpose, and it is absolutely too much to bear.

Sometimes he just stays in bed, lets the grief of it wash over him as he cries silently, curled in on himself to protect the eroding shorelines of his heart. The pain of it is somehow dull and excruciating at the same time, a weight that just sits in his chest, pinning him down where he can’t do anything but lie there helpless and hurt. 

Sometimes he takes himself in hand and he fucking hates himself for it, but also he _needs_. He needs to pretend that he’s in a world where the person he loves most will ever, ever want to touch him back. He hates, too, that he loves Aziraphale so much. It would be so much easier if he didn’t. 

The longer he never confesses his feelings, the longer he can pretend. The longer it’ll hurt and the longer he’ll continue to give himself false hope over and over and over again, but false hope still feels like the real thing and if that isn’t the most pathetic thing about him, he doesn’t know what is. It is want, and need, and desperation, and aching, aching loneliness for something he’s not entitled to in the first place.

And ultimately, it’s just him, his heart, and his hand, and never anyone else. 

It is always different and he can never remember what he thinks about, in moods like these. The fantasies are as tenuous as water in his hands, slipping through his fingers from one moment to the next. Strong hands pin his wrists to the bed, a clever mouth sinks onto his cock, two thick fingers thrust in and out of him rhythmically. He thinks of everything and nothing, but it is always his angel’s broad body enveloping him in warmth, in desire. Because this Aziraphale praises him in every touch, this Aziraphale loves him in the way he knows deep down he deserves. This Aziraphale tells him he is _worthy_.

He feels his cock harden at the words he’ll never hear, and he palms over his silk pajamas slowly. He drags his heel along the length, squeezes gently at the head, and finally slips the waistband of his pajamas and pants down and off his legs, a relief as his flushed cock meets the cool morning air. He slicks his palm and takes himself in hand, sets a quick pace. He never wants this to last long.

Today he thinks Aziraphale, this Aziraphale, would be tender. Crowley would wake up and Aziraphale’s arms would be wrapped around him, one thick thigh nudged between his own, a hard cock pressed lazily against his arse. He’d hum contentedly and push himself back, deeper into the security of Aziraphale’s embrace. Aziraphale would laugh and hold him tighter, press light kisses along his neck, the bare expanse of his freckled shoulders. 

Crowley would turn around then, see his angel’s face beaming brighter than the sun rising through the window, and would have no choice but to kiss him, to sink both of his hands into the platinum curls he’d had the privilege of touching once and had been thinking about every day since. 

They would smile against each other’s lips, still so giddy that they get to have this now, and then Aziraphale’s would turn into a wicked grin before he slipped his tongue in, made it something filthy, needy. Aziraphale would roll him onto his back and press him into the mattress, grind his hips down and rub their hard lengths together. 

Crowley moans as his hips lift off the bed and he fists himself quicker, wishing not for the first time that he could miraculously pin himself down while getting off and have it feel even a tenth as good as he knew this would.

Aziraphale, this Aziraphale, would pull back and study his face in detail. “ _Light of my life_ ,” this Aziraphale would say. “ _My love, my dearest_.” And Crowley would let him say these things, would bask in the glow of feeling like all the darkest corners of his battered and broken soul were seen and still, impossibly, _loved_. A sob claws at his vocal cords until they’re raw, but he pushes it down. Not now, don’t break the fantasy, can’t let the absurdity of it bring him back to reality.

This Aziraphale would rest his warm palm on his cheek, and he reaches across his body to cup his own jaw, the tender cradle of it catching in his chest. He swipes his thumb slowly across his cheekbone, dips his slender fingers into the hair at his temple and scratches lightly. He imagines it’s Aziraphale’s thumb that drags across his lips, contorting them, until he slips it into his mouth and whines as he sucks at the digit in earnest, laving his tongue along the length. 

This Aziraphale’s eyes are dark and hungry as he sucks and then Crowley’s orgasm hits him like a freight train, painful and sudden, thick ropes of come marking his chest as his hand still touches his own face tenderly. He drops his hands and breathes and lets his release cool unpleasantly on his skin, a fitting badge for this pathetic thing that he’s become.

 _Have some dignity_ , he tells himself. There is no bite in it because he is too hollow on these days for any of it to matter.

He finally miracles himself clean and lies there for so long he does not know how much time has passed. But eventually he gets up, gets dressed, and begins his day.


End file.
